


warmth & colour

by lolainslackss



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: 5+1 Things, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Vacation, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Winter, disgustingly romantic boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 10:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17021142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolainslackss/pseuds/lolainslackss
Summary: Andrew and Neil take a much-needed trip over Christmas break. Andrew tries to find different ways to keep warm, but the cold is persistent.An unstructured 5+1 of sorts.





	warmth & colour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ApprenticedMagician](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticedMagician/gifts).



> my winter aftg exchange fic for @ApprenticedMagician whose lovely prompt list included: Andrew finding different ways to keep warm during the winter (fuzzy sock slippers, apple cider, fireplaces, etc.) ,, I hope you enjoy!

Andrew starts the car as Neil finishes up trading holiday wishes with their teammates by the stadium doors. They’ve finally made it to winter break and Andrew couldn’t be more ready. He’s tired, and it’s been a long and tricky season. He’s quietly eager for a break. He’s even more quietly eager to enjoy Neil’s company. Unhurried, unrushed. Just the two of them and the cats and the quiet.

Neil waves one last goodbye and climbs into the passenger seat and Andrew pulls out of the lot. Outside the window, the sky is rainwater grey and streaked with the red of split pomegranates, swollen with the promise of snow. This year, they have two whole weeks off. The time seems to stretch out in front of them like the darkening highway. It feels tiny and infinite both at the same time.

They’re going on a trip over Christmas. Have booked a tiny cabin at some cosy resort in the middle of nowhere. It’ll be just the two of them - plus the cats - for a short while. After that, they’ll stop in at Wymack’s for a few days where they’ll see Abby as well as Kevin and Thea. Then, it’s Aaron and Katelyn’s place for a single night, which is precisely how long Andrew can handle their company. Finally, it’s a handful of days at home before practice starts up again. All that time doesn’t feel so infinite when it’s split and organised into such neat sections. There are small blocks of their calendar filled in with chunky lines of bright yellow highlighter marking it all out. It’s so regular and boring Andrew feels like he should hate it.

And yet-

The engine thrums as they pause at a stoplight. Andrew leans over the console and kisses Neil on the lips. It’s a prelude of a kiss. Firm and biting as the frost clinging to the car windscreen. Neil smiles, the rosebud-swell of his lips curving into something knowing and delighted as the light switches to green.

They get back to their apartment after the sun has set, their breathing coming out as twin puffs of white air as they stride over to the complex’s entrance. Once their apartment door is open, they’re greeted by a disorienting darkness and excited mewling. Neil coos familiarly at the cats as he reaches out to get the light. He flips the switch once, twice, three times. Nothing happens. Their windows are black squares of jewelled night-time. Shadows sweep across the wooden floors in puddles and lines.

“Weird,” Neil mutters.

“Power cut,” Andrew returns, dumping his duffel bag on the floor and making his way inside. The cats follow him, their bodies bumping up against his legs as they go.

Neil tries all the lights as Andrew lightly kicks one of the heaters with the tip of his sneaker. It makes a metallic _dunk_ as he does so and he places his palm against it. It’s cool. Obviously. The heat will have shut off when the power cut out and now the entire apartment feels cold. It seeps in from all directions and Andrew is instantly reminded of being a kid, of hiding out in an ice tunnel he’d spent his entire afternoon carving out, feeling shivery and numb-fingered yet safely hidden away.

Winter, for him, has always been that colour. It’s ice tunnel white, the dirty grey of old ponds, the fuzzy, late-night television blue of unmarked snow. It’s the entire world drained - paled - to the same drab, lifeless palette.

He drags himself out of the memory quicksand and pulls on another, heavier jacket over the one he’s already wearing. As he does so, Neil lights candles and digs out an old battery-powered radio. The candles smell sweet and vaguely dusty, and the music seeping out of the radio crackles as it does so, but the darkness and silence peel back like old band-aids. The glimmer of the candle-flames get trapped in Neil’s blue eyes, turning them into glinting lanterns.

“Wonder when it’ll come back on,” Neil muses thoughtfully as his stomach grumbles. “Should we order food? Just in case?”

“Do whatever you like,” Andrew says, sitting on the couch with his legs tucked up to his chest. He grabs a nearby throw and winds it around himself.

“You’re cold?” Neil asks.

“You aren’t?” Andrew responds. His teeth are practically chattering.

Neil shrugs and Andrew bristles, feeling briefly and absurdly envious. Neil is always hot - especially at night. Andrew doesn’t usually complain. After all, he doesn’t mind curling up against his boyfriend in bed and leeching some of that reliable warmth. At the minute, though, he wishes he had the same ability to not feel the cold so acutely.

Just as Neil finishes ordering take-out, the lights twitchily flicker to life.

“Figures,” Andrew remarks with a shrug, before going to get the mini electric heater from the bedroom. He plugs it in and then returns to his spot on the couch, laying the blanket over the heater so that he creates a little pocket of heat around himself. After a few minutes, he starts to thaw.

“Better?” Neil asks as he wanders around the room blowing out the candles, their orange glows transforming into wispy smoke before disappearing.

Andrew shrugs and Neil frowns throughtfully. He walks through to the kitchen and eventually Andrew hears the gentle bubbling of water being boiled. Neil emerges a few minutes later with a mug of hot cocoa topped with giant, powder puff marshmallows.

“I can make my own hot drinks,” Andrew says blandly as he accepts the steaming mug.

“Just let me look after you, for once,” Neil replies, smiling teasingly.

“I’m not sick.”

“You could be if you don’t warm up.”

Andrew acquiesces. Being ‘looked after’ is something he thinks might take forever to get used to, but accepting small gestures of kindness from Neil without puncturing the moment with a dark comment or wanting to re-galvanise his heart afterwards is something he’s slowly grown used to. He sips the cocoa. His throat floods with its sweet, sticky warmth but his feet and hands still feel frost-nipped.

Neil raises a finger and makes a little surprised noise as if he’s just had a bright idea. Andrew narrows his eyes at him, but he returns to the kitchen without a word and soon, Andrew hears the sound of boiling water gurgling and spit-hissing again. Neil comes back to him with a stack of hot water bottles. Andrew didn’t know they had so many, but they’ve managed to amass a small army of them over the years due to sustaining various sports injuries. They flop against each other like live fish as Neil upends them into Andrew’s lap.

Andrew frowns at the hot water bottles before re-arranging them. The cats - apparently magnetically drawn by their presence - hop onto the couch and settle on his chest and lap respectively. Andrew can’t help but mimic their yawns.

“Sleep if you want,” Neil says. He’s watching the three of them with that look in his eye. Andrew knows the one. The one that says, _I can’t believe this is real_ and _I can’t believe I get to have this_. In private, Andrew sometimes catches the same sentiment warping his own expression. He’s too tired to open his mouth to tell Neil to stop it, so he lets his eyes give in to the heaviness and flutter closed.

After what feels like a millisecond, Neil gently nudges him awake. He wakes up feeling - quite miraculously - _warm_ , but soon enough the cold creeps up on him once he’s untangled himself from the blankets. Andrew notices their packed bags next to King and Sir’s empty travel cases near the door as he makes his way to the bedroom.

Andrew folds himself into bed, exhausted, but he still has enough energy to tug Neil close.

 

…

 

They leave early the next morning. The air is embroidered with this icy chill that freezes Andrew right down to his bones. He loops his scarf once more around his neck and bundles his gloved hands inside his pockets as Neil carefully arranges the cats in the backseat. Andrew wonders when it’ll start to snow as he looks down at the spiderwebs of frost criss-crossing the concrete beneath his feet. Fuzzy, Christmas-themed socks peek out from the tops of his boots (they were a gift from Nicky and Erik and they’re so gaudy and shimmery that he only wears them in emergency situations), but Andrew’s toes still feel numb to the point of dropping off. He stole one of Neil’s hoodies to wear over his sweater and under his jacket. It’s bright orange - the colour of tangerine peel and Palmetto - but he doesn’t mind the headache-inducing colour because somehow it feels a little warmer than his own. It smells like Neil too - shower fresh and deodorant-y. That extra magic scent which is all Neil’s own: the scent of home and now. And always.

They get in the car. Neil is driving the first part of the way so Andrew curls up in the passenger seat and contemplates going back to sleep. It would be unwise, he thinks, to nap so soon after such a heavy night’s sleep, but he hates the cold and he’ll do anything to escape from it. When he wakes, twenty minutes later, his mouth is dry and his brain feels muggy. His arms and legs feel stiff. He reaches out and puts the car heating system on fully. Next to him, Neil looks content. He watches the road with a relaxed, steady gaze. They spend the rest of the ride bickering over radio stations and chatting about their vacation. They stop off at diners for shitty coffee and thick wedges of pumpkin pie and at gas stations for cigarettes and hard candies.

They reach their cabin at dusk. The surrounding woods are packed with lush evergreens which swoon in the breeze, their leaves varying in colour from dark seawater green to buttery avocado. Somewhere near, birds chirp nonsensically. It’s so idyllic it’s kind of cliché, but Andrew can’t think of anything he wants more in that moment than to follow Neil inside.

Inside, it turns out, is not much better. A fully-decorated Christmas tree glitters by the window, and the table is adorned with a showy, crimson Poinsettia centrepiece. The bedroom is like something out of a glossy magazine spread. The sheets are as white and crisp as new envelopes and the springs yawn pleasantly when Neil flops down on the bed. Andrew lets his fingertips graze the edge of the folded duvet. It’s soft and fluffy and topped with a chocolate wrapped in shiny, silver paper like the foil of a blister pack.

“This is nice,” Neil says, because despite being hosted in the fanciest penthouse suites of the world’s most expensive hotels, he’s still easily impressed by luxury.

“It’s better than a kick in the teeth,” Andrew concedes, lying down next to Neil on the bed. “And it’s far away from the Exy Court at least.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Neil says, rolling his eyes and reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair out of Andrew’s eyes. “You have to learn how to deal with losing a season more constructively. This bratty act is getting old.”

“I don’t care about losing the season,” Andrew counters, but his mind is immediately filled with images of an unforgiving scoreboard and the disappointed look on Neil’s face. Echoing with the sound of the ball slamming into the wall behind him.

Neil huffs out a humourless laugh that says Andrew is being transparent. It doesn’t cut through him as deeply as it once would. Maybe he doesn’t mind being see-through every once in a while. In a  cabin in the middle of the woods where it’s just the two of them, it doesn’t feel so life-threatening.

“Next year we’ll do better,” Neil tells him, as if reading his mind.

“Next year will be more entertaining,” Andrew corrects him, sliding his hands under the fabric of Neil’s thin t-shirt and thinking _warm, warm, warm_. How was it even possible Neil’s skin was so flush with warmth? That he could wear a t-shirt as if it were the middle of fucking July? It was maddening and wonderful. Andrew’s hands itch as the heat pours across his skin. The feel of it seems to ignite the fuses of his nerve endings. He wants to touch Neil all over. For reasons other than stealing his warmth.

“You’re cold again,” Neil says, grimacing a little as Andrew’s frozen fingertips waltz across his stomach.

“It’s late December,” Andrew replies. “It’s a typically cold time. You’re the oddball here.”

“Did you just call me an oddball?” Neil says, letting his mouth fall open in faux indignation.

Andrew hums and closes it with a kiss.

 

…

 

After a couple of days lounging around the lodge, going for occasional walks in the woodlands which Andrew always cuts short because _it’s really fucking cold_ , they venture out to the nearby lodge. It’s a grand structure - the wood has a roasted chestnut’s shine and there is a patchworked stone chimney spilling out clouds of smoke from the fire burning inside. The fire happens to be the only reason Andrew is even going. Part of the appeal of the trip was to avoid humanity for a short while. The lodge is probably full of picture perfect families singing carols and decorating gingerbread men, but Neil is adamant that sitting by an open fire will melt all of Andrew’s apparently permanently frozen spots.

“Over here,” Neil says, tugging him towards two velvety armchairs lurking by the fireplace.

They sit. Andrew’s clothes are damp from the snow, but the fire is a monstrous thing - crackling and popping as it devours the firewood - and it immediately dries him out, warming him a little.

“Drink?” Neil asks, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward a Christmas tree-shaped chalkboard reading, _mulled apple cider_.

“I’ll need to _mull_ it over,” Andrew quips dryly as he sinks into the cosy cushions of the chair.

“You’re hilarious,” Neil replies sarcastically, but he does look amused and Andrew takes that as a win.

Neil heads over to the bar, insisting Andrew sit and rest and warm up, and returns holding two steaming mugs of hot cider. They clink their mugs together so that the rims smooch in _cheers_. Andrew sips his immediately and even though it practically burns the roof of his mouth, the warmth and the rush of strong alcohol thaw him even further.

“Is there rum in this?” he asks, tasting the brown sugar sweetness of dark rum hiding under the spiced fruitiness of the hot cider.

“Among other things,” Neil answers, wincing a little as he swallows his own mouthful.

The night carefully unfurls. They manage to lose count of how many mugs of mulled cider they put away between them, and begin playing a card game in which they each add a new convoluted rule at the end of each round. In spite of how complicated it is, and how tipsy they are getting, they each manage to do rather well and are still tied for points when the bar staff finally tell them it’s time to head back to their cabin.

All the warmth Andrew has gathered from the fireplace and the hot apple cider is stamped out like the last faintly-glowing embers of a fire when they eventually brave the outdoors. The snow is still falling fast, and an unkissed stretch of white lies in front of them.

They tipsily wander along the path leading to their cabin, the snow creaking beneath their shoes as they go, and if Andrew begins to shiver and Neil responds by pulling him close, at least nobody but the trees are around to see it.

 

…

 

Christmas Eve night stumbles around like a late party guest. They spend it indoors, Andrew baking gingerbread cookies and Neil doing some last-minute present-wrapping (a task he isn’t particularly well-practised in, nor particularly good at, but which he enjoys). They switch on the TV and let some cheesy holiday movie play out as Andrew prepares his dough and Neil clumsily ties ribbons around the badly-wrapped gifts.

Even though the oven has warmed the kitchen, making its windows blush with steam, and even though he’s wearing a ridiculous amount of layers, Andrew still feels chilly. Neil watches Andrew run his hands up and down his arms in an effort to generate a little heat for himself from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. Andrew is getting sick of his concerned looks. He’s always felt the cold more keenly than others, and he’s always detested the way it makes him feel: fidgety, weak and numb. But like so many other things, he’s come to terms with it.

When Neil gets to his feet and heads through to the bathroom to run a bath, Andrew opens his mouth to protest, to say _stop this_ , _I don’t need this_ , _I can handle it myself_ , but he just feels so drained that he lets the words die in his mouth and follows Neil through to the bathroom. A plume of steam greets him at the door. He leans against the frame and sighs. Neil is perched on the edge of the bath, swirling some fancy bubble mixture into the water. Andrew tuts and walks up behind him, stealing the bottle and upending the entire thing into the tub.

“What the fuck,” Neil mutters. “Andrew. The entire cabin will fill with bubbles.”

“That’s how I like it,” Andrew deadpans.

“Oddball.”

“Bigger oddball.”

Neil shrugs and leaves him to it. Sure enough, the bubbles multiply until they’re nearly spilling over the edge of the bath. Andrew reluctantly shrugs out of his clothes and climbs into the hot water, the bubbles sprawling up over his shoulders and around his face so that he can barely see over the top of them. The water kind of smells like herbal tea - minty and subtly grassy - but it’s not unpleasant. It’s nice, and more importantly, it’s _warm_. It surrounds him like some imaginary firefly glow.

“How’s it going?” Neil asks, appearing at the doorway with an oven mitt slung over his shoulder.

“I haven’t drowned yet,” Andrew replies, peeking at him through one open eye.

“That’s a relief,” Neil says, “but what I meant was, are you warm?”

“Yes,” Andrew concedes. _Thank you_.

“Good,” Neil tells him, only looking slightly smug. “I’ll leave you to it and make sure the cookies don’t burn in your absence.”

“Or,” Andrew drawls, “you could join me for a little while.”

Neil lets the oven mitt fall to the floor. It narrowly avoids King’s head and she hisses prissily before stalking out of the room.

“Good idea,” Neil says.

 

...

 

It’s Christmas morning and Andrew wakes up alone, squinting at the bleached yellow morning light spilling in through a gap in the curtains. After a little while, he hears the click of the door and then Neil climbs into bed beside him. He’s flushed warm and breathing heavily from his morning run. His chest rises and falls and he turns onto his side to face Andrew. His cheeks are tea rose pink and his eyes are snowstorm blue in the dim morning light of the cabin. Icy and electrifying in their delicacy. Powder blue.

Andrew sometimes thinks things - private things, things he can’t and won’t articulate out loud - in moments like this, when they lay across from each other and get their fill of staring. Things like: _he would never make a wreckage of you_ , or _I’m glad you’re here, that you made it out alive_ or even _how could anybody hurt you?_ That last one comes to him when, cupping Neil’s face between his hands and letting his fingers trace the fading scars there, he also thinks, _this is it_. _This is all you’ll ever need_.

He hopes that, somehow, his hands and touches do all the work of these thoughts.

Right now, the mattress dips. Neil is warming him up, kissing him all over. It’s almost _romantic_ , Andrew thinks. And Andrew used to hate that word, that sentiment. Believed he wasn’t built for romancing or tenderness. Now, he’s uncertain. Inside of him, there used to be a hollow. A torn-out void, as if left behind by a burst of poison. These days, he feels it’s been filled by something oddly and unexpectedly gentle. Something rare and precarious and far too good to be true. Something full of colour. Something he never thought he’d be capable of. Not after all that time spent calcifying himself, whittling himself down into one sharp, hard point. A weapon. He’d thought remaining open to the possibility of such a thing would leave him vulnerable, at risk.

And yet-

Neil is hot from his run and holding him tightly, releasing these maddeningly pleasant little sounds every time Andrew’s hands dip further downwards, returning his kisses with an equally fierce fire.

Here Andrew is.

Neil is with him, and they have a fistful of blissfully empty days to fill however they want.  

And Andrew is warm.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if u spot any mistakes or if u liked or whatever? :,) 
> 
> i'm on that fckn site from hell @ [lolainslackss](http://lolainslackss.tumblr.com)


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